


The Bees and the Dandelion

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The term “Dandelion child” is used in Norway and Denmark for children who manage to fight their way through life despite a problematic upbringing, typically due to domestic violence, child or drug abuse.</p><p>The dandelion is a flower, which grows in the most improbable places, breaking through asphalt and concrete, to stand erect and stretch toward the sun. The dandelion is a weed as well, and as such children with this background are often perceived as unworthy and neglected by society.</p><p>John Watson was such a child. After the “Reichenbach Fall” he once more has to find a purpose in his life, trapped in an unhappy marriage, and facing a future without his best friend Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking a flower

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the change in rating. This is not a kid fic any longer! Updates hopefully every other week.
> 
> Thanks to my very, very patient beta maggie_conagher (maggie_conagher.livejournal.com) and the elusive ghislainem70 (ghislainem70.livejournal.com)

It had been a surprisingly hot day. A light breeze, which stilled in the afternoon, turned the air into a massive blanket of heat. The dark clouds, heavy with rain, drifted silently over the city of London. Thunder could be heard in the distance, while the city fell into an eerie silence, waiting for the relief from the pressing warmth and humidity, making it almost impossible to breathe.

John had planned several days in advance. He knew he had to be cautious, if he wanted to succeed, hopefully breaking through the lack of communication and the absence of physical contact. Dinner went fine, and he had managed to get both of them upstairs into the bedroom.

John let his fingers glide through the black curls, reached up and kissed the red, lush lips, nibbling a bit at the bottom lip and letting his tongue invade the mouth. John indulged in being allowed the touch, feeling the contact of skin on skin, lips on lips. He pulled back, looked into the grey blue eyes in front of him. Reassuringly.

“Relax, this is good. You have nothing to be afraid of. I will be careful,” John said in a low husky, voice.

Letting his hands stroke up and down the slender back, he leaned in for another kiss, pulled away again and looked up. He smiled and received a warm smile in return.

It had been such a long time. John revelled in the sensations spreading through his body, breathing in the scent of the skin, the hair, the body in front of him. They were both naked, standing beside the bed. He lowered them onto the mattress. Slowly, carefully. Registering every little motion on the face in front of him. Watching the eyes, wide in anticipation, the lips parted, waiting for his next kiss.

“Mary,” his voice rough, “I love you.”

She blinked, let him kiss her, and opened her mouth to him. He could sense her arousal, teased her further with his fingers, felt the moisture between her legs. He was hard, his cock slick with pre-cum. Slowly, gently, John lowered himself down, sliding his cock into Mary, aware of any changes in her breathing, the way she responded to his exploration of her body. He closed his eyes for a moment, adjusting, restraining himself. He let his gaze drift, looking into hers filled with lust and love.

John kissed Mary’s throat. She moaned and he responded. Trailing his lips down to her breast, letting his tongue glide over the left nipple, hard, pink against the whiteness of the skin, John lifted his head, checking Mary. And with that John’s mind blanked. His cock flagging, even before his mind recognised the signs.

Mary’s eyes had widened in fear. Her body tensing. The breathing becoming shallow, fast.

“Please, Mary, please. Don’t.”

John was pleading. He pulled away, knowing that any prolonged contact only would intensify Mary’s distress.

“Please, talk to me, Mary. Tell me, what is wrong? Mary!”

He was begging, hopeless. She didn’t answer, looked through him, curled up on her side of the bed, trying to get as much space as possible between the two of them.

John sat on the bed beside Mary. She had turned her back on him, shoulders heaving as if sobbing. John tried to understand and to collect himself. He felt humiliated, angry, frustrated. 

And suddenly he was back in time, sitting on another bed, beside another woman, who had turned her back on him and was crying loudly. His mother was telling him to go away and leave her alone in a slurred voice because she was drunk again. Because his father had hit her again. And he had to take his little baby sister, who was crying, almost screaming. He had to make sure she would be quiet, else Daddy would become even angrier.

John felt lost. Lost, floating. All he wanted right now, right here, was someone, anyone, taking care of him. Telling him it was all right, not his fault. It wasn’t his fault! The anger grew inside of him.

Mary said in a low voice, “Please John, get a shower. Just let me be alone for a while.”

John wanted to take her into his arms, caress her, tell her, it was fine, everything was fine, would be fine. He wasn’t even able to say anything. He couldn’t touch her. She would flinch, tremble. He had tried. Oh, how he had tried the last weeks, months even. And he didn’t know, wasn’t able to figure out, what was needed. What Mary needed to feel safe.

Every single day for the last two months had been a struggle for John, trying to understand why Mary was reacting the way she was. She had told him about the rape, about other men taking advantage of her and not being able to stop them. And he had tried to soothe her, to make sure that he didn’t move or talk or touch her in a way that brought the memories back.

John’s body started to shake. He got up before he lost control over his reactions and went to the bathroom. A nice, spacious room, clean and orderly. Dark blue towels hanging neatly alongside each other, matching colours with the creamy white tiles on the wall.

Turning on the shower, waiting for the water to get cold, really cold, he stood and looked into the mirror, leaning on the sink. He looked haggard. He looked how he felt. Anger, frustration, humiliation, every single emotion splayed out on his face, written in the deep lines across his forehead, in the bags under his eyes. The anger boiling in his stomach, fighting its way up his throat. Wanting to scream, to lash out at something. Someone.

John drew a shuddering breath. For the second time this evening, he was back in his childhood home. This time watching his father hit his mother, forcing her onto the sofa. John closed his eyes. Back then he didn’t understand what happened after his mother stopped fighting, screaming. Now he was only too aware of what the movements of his father were conveying. John bit back a groan, pushing his anger down. It took effort. Letting frustration and humiliation get the upper hand for now, he turned and went into the shower.

He opened his eyes, forcing his thoughts away from his childhood. Back to the present. Now. Here. This very moment. He braced himself against the white tiles of the bath, the cold water beating down his back, enveloping him. Slowly he turned on the hot water, relaxing into the tepid temperature.

John reared back. Panting hard. No, no, no. This. It wasn’t possible. He had never. And yet the feeling was all too real, too genuine. He tried to calm himself. Setting his hands back onto the tiles. Breathing calmly. But the picture, the sensation came back. Unbidden, forceful. He couldn’t resist.

John closed his eyes and let his right hand drop down to his now hard, throbbing cock, starting to stroke himself. Leaning back into the flow of the shower, feeling long lean arms embracing him, lips caressing, kissing him down his throat and back. Listening to the deep, calming voice of his best friend, flatmate, and genius, John arched his head back, feeling the tingling down his spine. The voice kept talking to him, deep, calm, soothing. Telling him, that he wasn’t alone, wasn’t left behind. It wasn’t his fault. The arms were caressing his sides, Sherlock’s body entwined with John’s, and he could feel him everywhere. He couldn’t stop stroking his cock, didn’t want to. And he came, splashing cum up the tiles, watching how the water washed it away.

John sank down on his knees, confused. This was... He had never before... Why now? Sherlock had been dead for twenty-three months. Twenty-three months, one week and two days. Almost two years. He had nightmares, reliving the fall, seeing Sherlock lying on the ground in front of Bart’s. Waking Mary, crying, thrashing, he would get out of bed, sleeping in his study for the rest of the night, staying there for two nights until he was sure the crisis had passed.

He had imagined Sherlock walking in front of him, felt his presence on the street, seen him out of the corner of his eyes, had shouted his name and every time, every single time, it had been some stranger turning around and looking at him.

But John had never before fantasised about Sherlock like this. John was straight. John was married. John wanted to make love to Mary, his wife for the last seven months. His devoted, caring wife, who had made love with him, to him, whom he had kissed, caressed, embraced. Until. Until two months ago.

John could still remember the feeling of panic in him, the first time Mary stiffened under his touch. The first time her eyes showed fear while he was inside her. Aroused one second, limp the next, nausea welling up in his throat. He had pulled out, wanting to cuddle her, hug her. But she had turned away, asking him to leave her alone. No explanation. Not then. Not later.

At first it only happened in bed. One week later, she started to tremble while he was greeting her with a hug and a kiss. She didn’t explain, just withdrew. And John was left alone, feeling guilty without knowing why.

Mary’s refusal to touch had increased during the last month. John avoided any movements that could be perceived as threatening. Nothing helped, and no matter how often he tried to talk to Mary, tried to figure out how he could prevent any wrong doing on his part, she would turn away, even leave the room if he insisted.

John got up from the floor. Mary would be waiting for her turn under the shower. He turned down the hot water, and gasped out loud, when the cold hit him. He forced himself to stay under the pounding water for a few moments, before turning it off.

When he came back into the bedroom, he was wearing pyjamas. Mary had put on a light dressing gown and was covering her front with her arms as she went past him without looking at him.

She mumbled, “Please, change the sheet.”

John knew that any reminders of the encounter before would trigger her bad memories. The sheet would be such a reminder. He didn’t know why, but she had told him that much. He got a newly washed, lavender scented, bright white sheet out of the bedroom closet, shoved the used one into the laundry basket, making sure it was covered by the other laundry. He made a mental note to do the washing tomorrow.

Still feeling bemused, but also strangely contented, John got into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, not heeding Mary or the thunderstorm, which unleashed during the night.

The next morning would have been awkward, yet the novel feeling of satisfaction had taken hold in John’s mind. He was the first to get up in the morning, not needing an alarm to wake him. Years of training in Afghanistan had set his inner clock and later, with Sherlock, when sleep could be sparse and had to be taken whenever there was a chance.

Without waking Mary, John prepared breakfast. The rain during the night had cleaned the air and bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows of Mary’s – of their flat. Ground floor, small garden, bedroom and bathroom upstairs, kitchen leading into the living room, two studies and a toilet downstairs. The hallway was light and welcoming, everything tidy, neat, and cosy. Comforting, but John was not feeling at home, when he returned from surgery. This was not home, had never been in all the months he had lived here.

Baker Street 221B was his retreat. He had kept the flat, not having to worry about the money since Sherlock apparently had set up a fund for John in case something should happen to him.

John looked at the kettle, concentrating on the task at hand. Making tea and toast, getting everything ready for Mary. He had to leave soon while she sometimes stayed at home, working from her study. He hardly knew her schedule, which could change a lot during the term.

They had met during a conference. John’s colleagues from the surgery had made sure, he went away for a few days, not on a break, obviously, but for catching up with some new developments in medicine. Doctor Mary Morstan gave one of the keynotes on molecular cell bioengineering, specialising in the proliferation, differentiation, and death of blood cells. As a general practitioner, John would probably never be able to apply any of the information given in the lecture. He had never the less attended the session since it would save him from the loneliness of his hotel room.

Mary had lectured about the topic and John was surprised because he actually understood the research and was enthralled by the beautiful woman using complex words and sentences he last had heard from his flatmate. Somehow John worked up the nerves to ask Doctor Morstan out for dinner that evening, and they stayed in touch after the conference. Mary lived in London, worked at the Imperial College of London, and had just gone through a messy divorce with an abusive husband.

John snapped out of the reverie. He had to wake Mary before he left. Hoping she would be fine by now, he walked up the staircase with the breakfast tray and tried to put on a friendly, loving smile. It was easier than he expected, suddenly remembering the incident in the shower last night. He knocked on the bedroom door, opened it with his elbow and said in a low voice, “Good morning, darling.”

Mary stirred, but did not cry out or leap up. A good sign, John thought. He went to her side of the bed and placed the tray on her lap. She smiled at him and let him kiss her on the temple.

“How are you?”

“Fine. You slept through the thunderstorm even though I tried to wake you.”

“Sorry, I know how much you hate storms.”

He caressed her cheek with a light touch of his fingers. Smiling and looking into her eyes. She smiled back, allowing the touch.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

He bent over to give her a kiss on the mouth. Mary withdrew at first, but then seemed to force herself into the kiss, even parting her lips invitingly.

“I’ll be back around six o’clock. Anything you need from the shop?”

“No, don’t bother. I have some research topics and some experiments, I need to discuss with James. Doctor Wesley. I guess I’ll be home very late tonight.”

John sighed. Doctor James Wesley was an older colleague of Mary’s. He had met him at their wedding, which he attended with his wife. He and Mary got along very well, and discussing experiments meant normally staying up until the early morning, because the two of them got so absorbed in their ideas and discussions that everything else was forgotten. John smiled fondly, stroking through Mary’s dark curly hair.

“Well, see you some time after midnight then,” he replied, got up and went to the door. He turned and looked at Mary, who smiled at him.

“Bye then, and take good care of your patients today,” Mary said and gave him a little wink. He sighed and walked down the stairs, got his bag and left.

  


xXx

 

While most of the Londoners hadn’t welcomed the oppressive heat the day before, one lonely figure on a park bench had done exactly that: almost sucking in the sunshine and warmth during the day. He had suffered from pneumonia just a few weeks back contracting the illness while staking out one more of Moriarty’s henchmen, taking him down two days before he finally could return to London.

Sherlock had found his last target, placed in London. The organisation, headed by Moriarty, didn’t collapse with Moriarty’s death. Sherlock knew he had to find every single gunman as well as a considerable part of the other members of the widespread net before he could assure the safety of John. And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

John.

Sherlock had found the park bench suitable as a resting place, at the same time being able to watch the building in which Sebastian Moran would stay the next two days. Forty-eight hours left to accomplish the task Sherlock had set for himself almost two years back. Twenty-three months, one week and two days. He went through his plan one more time. If everything worked out the way he anticipated – and when didn’t it? Everybody in this organisation seemed to be dead stupid compared to Moriarty – then he would be able to return to Baker Street 221B in two days.

Forty-eight hours, he repeated in his mind. He would be back and John would be there. Sherlock could hear John’s voice in his mind. “Food, Sherlock, even your body needs it once in a while.” 

Sherlock sighed. After he had fainted from exhaustion and lack of food by the end of the first week after his ‘death’, Sherlock had a schedule for the intake of food running in his mind, to make certain his body wouldn’t boycott his mind and collapse on him.

He dived into the plastic bag beside him. He collected food from the containers outside Tesco’s and the like. Being on his own meant very little money to spend. And food, necessary as it was, could still be gathered for free from dustbins and leftovers in the centre of the cities he had visited during his hunt.

During his time away, Sherlock had put his observational skills to good practice. Without having John to explain or smooth out misunderstandings, Sherlock had to become even more perceptive in regard to relations with and between people.

While it had the character of a game before, in these past two years it meant the difference between staying alive or dying. Especially during the first month he had been in deep trouble more than once, fearing for his life, his possibility to return to John, because he had misread people, hadn’t reacted properly or had aired his deductions at inappropriate times. He shuddered at the memories, not yet deleted. He meant to keep them as a reminder, an experience teaching him a lesson about life. He had learned the hard way to read people better than ever before.

Sherlock needed the nagging in the back of his head, whenever he was too engrossed with details, with the chase. Whenever he disregarded people’s feelings, John’s voice would remind him to take care – not necessarily of the people involved, but to make sure his lack of empathy wouldn’t get him into trouble.

It was getting late, and Sherlock could see the lights in the building. The first raindrops started falling, heavily on the dusty pavements. Sherlock stretched, his figure showing the hardship he had endured. His rare glimpses in mirrors or shop windows reflected back a gaunt and scruffy figure. If he failed in the next forty-eight hours, he wasn’t even sure if he had the strength to start all over again. But he would have to – he had to risk being found out to get close enough to Moran. If Moran wasn’t dead by the end of that encounter, Moriarty’s net would know that Sherlock was alive, putting every single one of his friends in the hairline of a sniper – again.

The thunderstorm started, and Sherlock welcomed the heavy, relentless rain. Cleaning the city, cleansing him, brushing the filth of the past weeks off his face and clothes. Clearing his mind for the task in front of him.

  


[Prologue](416814)


	2. Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Sherlock make his way back to John? Or is his fight in vain, since John has moved on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Explicit violence, implied torture
> 
> Beta: The very, very patient maggie_conagher (maggie_conagher.livejournal.com)
> 
> Cheerleader: The elusive ghislainem70 (ghislainem.livejournal.com)

The day had started on brighter note, but the change in the weather was fast and thorough. By lunchtime people were wearing their coats and scarfs if they had to go outside. The sun was still shining, but it was cooling and the wind was increasing.

Sherlock had found the right spot. Sebastian Moran would use the flat rooftop of the abandoned building as his vantage point. Sherlock didn’t know the intended victim, a doctor in Biogenetics or something, selling research to the highest bidder. In this case the highest bidder was an organisation, which wanted the doctor dead on delivery of the information, assuring nobody else got the material. 

Sherlock couldn’t care less. His aim was Moran. Should he save a doctor or anyone else in the process of eliminating the sniper, well, good for them, but not his problem or concern. Sherlock had found out about the upcoming assassination two weeks before.

He had used the morning to find the best spot for Moran and then to find a hiding place on said rooftop. He took his mobile. He hadn’t used it for the last twenty-three months. After his fall, Molly helped him initially. With money, getting his cover-up in place and what else was needed for Sherlock to get under the radar of everybody, including his own brother. Sherlock had used prepaid cards and decided, one week into his ‘death’, that this was still posing a threat to Molly so he stopped texting her. He shut down his phone, hoping she would think he hadn’t made it. It was safer for everybody.

Now he looked at the phone again. He had bought a new card and was fingering the mobile trying to assess the risks, the possibilities and advantages. Sherlock tapped in a text, giving an address, specific requirements, and the final greeting: 

‘Don’t make contact. Still too dangerous. SH’. 

He pressed ‘send’ and imagined his brother’s face on receiving a message from the dead. Knowing he would try to call, Sherlock turned off the mobile.

Sherlock waited an hour before turning on the mobile again. After a while, the new text message came through: 

‘Ok. MH’.

Sherlock smirked wondering how Mycroft had reacted, what his surveillance team had to endure in the last hour.

Whatever came next, Sherlock had found the right spot; he was sure about that. Now it was just a game of waiting. It was ten in the morning, and Sherlock was on stand by until the evening, the next part of his plan depending heavily on Mycroft’s reliability and the hope that John hadn’t changed his habits or moved out of Baker Street.

XXX

  


John had asked for a longer lunch break that day, hoping he could go shopping and visit Mrs Hudson before returning to the surgery. Since it had been a quiet day, he told Sarah he would be back by four, doing some paperwork until closing time.

John had often wondered why she had taken him back into the surgery. He had suspected it was out of pity, but was grateful any way, since it meant a distraction from the chaos in his life at that time. He lost himself in the work and took extra shifts. Listening to the problems and troubles of the patients and treating their ailments, kept his mind away from his own emptiness and guilt. He was meticulous to the extreme those days, and Sarah more than once disapproved of his use of the surgery’s sparse resources. Still, he was a good doctor and an even better one as time went by and the patients became more than just a diversion from his own despair, becoming human beings he cared about.

Right now he was hoping to find Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, watching some crap television shows. He was still mystified by the ‘shower incident’ the previous night, but somehow it had turned a switch inside of him. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, he was able to plan. Not just for the next few days, but concerning Mary’s and his future, the flat in Baker Street, and his ideas on what he wanted in life. In his mind he still didn’t accept the reality of Sherlock’s – death, cringed just by thinking the word ‘death’ in connection with Sherlock, but now he felt ready to face life as such again. John no longer felt the need to look for him, to suddenly have him appear in front of him on his way to Baker Street. Sherlock might no longer ‘be here’ as a person, but John felt as if his essence had become a part of him.

John had been at Tesco’s for the groceries and was now on his way to Baker Street 221B. As usual, when approaching the street, his leg started acting up. The first months after the funeral, John had to occasionally use the cane again, giving in to it after an especially humiliating experience on his way back home from surgery, where he tripped and fell in front of a group of young women, seemingly tourists. They believed he was drunk since he was unable to get back up and refused to help, just staring at him with judging eyes. He had to call Lestrade in the end, and wished – not for the first time - Sherlock had taken him with him from the top of Bart’s.

Since his first date with Mary, his leg hadn’t bothered him. Until two months ago. But even now it was not as bad as it had been almost two years back. He could cover it with a bit of shuffling, and even on his best days with Mary, Baker Street had been the one part of town where his leg gave way.

Mrs Hudson was indeed home and delighted to see him. He gave her a warm hug, which was reciprocated, then excused himself for a few moments, wanting to get some of the groceries stored in the fridge in the flat upstairs.

“Are you moving back in?” Mrs Hudson asked with barely disguised excitement. She had never liked Mary, John remembered.

“No, no. I am just preparing for a little dinner tomorrow evening. I hoped you could join us?” he explained. Mrs Hudson’s face said quite clearly what she really wanted to say, however she replied kindly, “Thank you very much. I would like that. What time?”

“I thought about seven?”

“Wonderful. Now, I’ll make some tea while you get sorted, Doctor Watson. See you in a minute.”

John smiled on his way up the stairs, taking it slowly since his leg had gotten worse. When he entered the flat – their flat, he was not able to say or even think ‘my flat’ – he felt home. A split second later, the feeling of loneliness came crashing on him. It was a physical blow and he almost dropped his bags. Standing in the doorway he took a deep breath and took one step forward into the room. He went through the living room into the kitchen, as he had done ever since ... – hoping, Sherlock would be sitting in the kitchen with one of his ridiculous experiments.

As always the flat was clean, orderly, utterly ‘boring’, if it hadn’t been John’s home, his rescue back then – after Afghanistan, before Bart’s. With a deep sigh, John went into the kitchen and started unpacking the groceries, putting them into the fridge.

He returned to Mrs Hudson’s flat a few minutes later. She was in the kitchen, sitting at the small table, watching telly on the little set on top of her fridge. Tea was ready and Mrs Hudson had also produced some biscuits from her abundance of the same. They chatted amiably along, mostly about the weather and The Jeremy Kyle show (John had to catch up on that one, since he hadn’t had any need for telly the past months), when Mrs Hudson paused and remarked, ”He was here you know.”

John’s breathing stopped, his heartbeat started galloping, and he could just croak out “Who?”

“Mycroft. His brother. He seemed happy.”  


Happy? That bastard. John hadn’t talked with him since the funeral. He had sent a present, despite not being invited to the wedding. Mycroft had tried to talk with him several times, but John had refused. No matter how often he would apologise, John wasn’t able to forgive him.

“When was that?” John was puzzled.

“He came by this morning. Looked very excited, quite unlike him – now, look, the poor thing is crying. Jeremy always does that to people, doesn’t he?” 

Mrs Hudson giggled happily and took another sip of her tea. John was aware of Jeremy’s merits, but was slightly more interested in Mycroft’s visit. John asked, curious, “What did he want?” 

“Oh, he wouldn’t tell,” Mrs Hudson seemed to drag herself away from the telly, “but I’m sure it had something to do with Sherlock.”

John must have looked even more confused by this revelation.

“He went up to the flat – I hope you don’t mind. But it seemed so important for him.”

She paused again. “May be it’s just his new girlfriend.”

John almost spluttered his tea all over the place.

“His girlfriend?”

Mycroft and a girlfriend? Any friends as a matter of fact? As much as Sherlock complained about friends, Mycroft was an even less likely candidate for falling in love in John’s book.

“Well, just silly me speaking. But it was as if there was a light shining from within him. And his eyes were sparkling,” she beamed at him, romantic as always.

“Like yours, when Sherlock made one of his deductions – or when the two of you came back from one of your cases.”

She smiled broadly at the recollection, while John looked down at his cup. He closed his eyes and shifted in the chair. Last night was roaring back in his mind. He swallowed, before looking up again.

“Didn’t he tell you, what he wanted?”

“No. Just wanted to see the flat and he went through some of Sherlock’s things.”

John admired how Mrs Hudson sounded perfectly normal when talking about Sherlock.

“He did ask for you. Told me to tell you that he would like to speak with you.”

John didn’t reply. Mrs Hudson knew that he had problems with Mycroft, but he had never told her that he held him at least partly responsible for Sherlock’s ...death. Mycroft gave Moriarty all the ammunition needed to turn the press against him.

The show on the telly had ended and John cleared his throat. “I’d better be going. See you tomorrow then.”

“Oh yes, I’ll be looking forward to dinnertime,” Mrs Hudson replied and got up to see him out.

“I’ll come around by five o’clock tomorrow if you should need something from the shops or something done in the flat?”

“Oh, thank you, but Mrs Turner has a new tenant, who helps me these days. And I won’t be in until around half past six. Having a date with my lady friends,” she chuckled and hugged him one more time, before he went out into the cold afternoon wind.

Back at the surgery, things were even calmer than when he had left for lunch. He checked his mobile and saw a text from Lestrade. It had been a while since he last had heard from him. After the incident with his leg, John had tried to keep his distance, but Lestrade had pulled him away to the pub at least once a week keeping John up to date with the Yard. But since his wedding, Lestrade had only contacted him once or twice. Mary had been concerned about John’s involvement in any further police cases, not wanting him to be reminded of his life with his former flatmate.

‘See you at the pub at six? –GL’ it read.

John didn’t even think and sent

‘I’ll be there. JW’

Mary wouldn’t be home before midnight, and a little chat with an old friend certainly couldn’t do any harm.

John was about to finish everything up, and close the surgery, being the last one around, when Sarah called him on the mobile.

“Are you still at the surgery?” She sounded out of breath.

“Yes,” John answered.

“Could you get over here as fast as possible – gun shot wound, possible suicide attempt. Don’t know when the ambulance arrives.”

She gave him the address, a place just a few blocks away. John collected the things needed, threw them in his medic bag and was on his way within minutes.

The ambulance had arrived before John, and Sarah seemed to have everything under control. She had the patient, a woman, on the stretcher, walking besides her holding up a bag of saline infusion. When she saw John, she turned to him, motioning to the paramedics to take the patient into the ambulance.

“It’s a close call. They’re trying to locate her husband. She left a note, just hope she’ll make it without too much damage to the brain,” Sarah explained and continued, “I’ll take her to the hospital. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No problem. Give me an update, will you?” John replied, looking concerned at the figure lying in the back of the ambulance. Sarah nodded and with that she was off together with the paramedics. A few police officers were at the scene, but John didn’t recognise any of them. He looked at the house, sighed and started to walk down the street, getting a cab.

On his way to the pub, he recalled the sensation in the shower. The comfort of it was lingering on and he was not able to explain any of it. Just the feeling of contentedness. Why now? During the last two years, John had never experienced anything like it. Sherlock had been a phantom in his surroundings, not a person talking to him, touching him. Strangely, it felt liberating, as if John didn’t have to look for him any longer, as if Sherlock was a part of him now. He shook his head, but could feel the smile on his face.

It had been a long time since John last had been at his pub. He saw Lestrade at the counter and greeted him heartily.

“Well, what’s the occasion?” John asked after having ordered a pint and found a place for them to sit more privately.

Lestrade grinned widely. He looked at least ten years younger and John couldn’t resist the happiness in his face and eyes.

“I am a free man again,” Lestrade replied.

“The divorce?” John recalled.

Lestrade was his best man at the wedding, but he had a hard time being cheerful. His marriage problems had been so apparent that both Mary and John had decided not to invite his wife to the wedding.

“It finally went through. Got the papers today. Cheers!” Lestrade lifted his glass.

Drinking in silence for a while, John inquired, “What now? Moving out?”

“Well,” Lestrade answered, “A friend of mine has this little flat, so I’ll be moving my stuff in the weekend, if things stay quiet at work.”

“Good luck with that,” John smirked. It was Thursday, the probability for a quiet weekend not that big.

The two of them chatted on about their favourite teams, rankings, and the last time England didn’t make it to the semi-finals in the European Championship because they couldn’t get a grip on their penalty shoot-out.

They had a few sandwiches for dinner and finally John got up and said his good-byes.

“Hope nothing will come up so you can get sorted.”

“Yeah, let’s hope so. Could use the rest, had been some rather hectic weeks lately.”

John took his bag and went home. It was a few minutes to nine, when he arrived at the front door, wondering, why the lights were on in the flat. On entering, he could see Mary’s coat and called out.

“Mary? Are you home?”

The response was an immediate and angry, “Yes! And where the hell have you been?!”

John was perplexed and stuttered, “Eh, I... I’ve... at the pub. I didn’t know you were in. You told...”

“You said you would be home by six!” Mary stood in the doorway to the living room, hands turned into fists, every part of her raging with fury.

 John was totally taken aback and tried to figure out what he was missing out on, while trying to keep calm, setting down his bag and hanging his coat in the closet.

“Mary, I’m sorry. I thought you had some experi—“

Mary cut him short, “You could at least have texted me, if you’re going out in the middle of the week!”

“But... What is this really about?” John couldn’t make heads or tails of Mary’s anger.

“Doctor Wesley’s wife tried to commit suicide today. He had to go and hold her hand,” Mary replied irritated.

“Sorry, his wife? Did she, did she try to shoot herself?” John was bewildered. Mary’s eyes narrowed.

“So you knew? And you didn’t think, you should have called me or something?” Her voice was cold and menacing.

“No, I just... Sarah called me to help her, but the ambulance arrived before I could get there and...” John clarified.

“Sarah? So you went to the pub with her? After rescuing James’ wife?” The innuendo in the sentences was all to clear. John cleared his throat.

“No, no. Now, listen to me, Sarah went with Mrs Wesley to the hospital and I met up with Lestrade at th- ” John attempted, before Mary almost shouted,

“Lestrade! So, he wants you on a case again? Or were you just chatting on about old times?”

Mary was shaking, not even trying to cover up her rage. John felt more and more at a loss, not knowing what had triggered Mary’s agitation, still doing his best to smooth things out. But nothing seemed to help.

“Mary, please, listen to me,” John had moved forward and reached out to place his left hand on her shoulder. Mary stepped back, but stopped and leaned forward instead.

“What is wrong? I just had a chat with Lestrade. His divorce is finally through, had a bite to eat and went straight home. Nothing strange about that,” he let his hand stroke her arm, trying to calm her.

Mary remained angry, but appeared to make an effort to take in John’s explanation. “You could have called me. James was very distressed and I was suddenly left all by myself. It’s just typical of you not to give me a second thought, just going on about your friends!” She worked herself up again.

“But. Mary, I had no idea. How was I supposed to know...?” John was confused.

“No, that’s exactly my point! Why didn’t you think of me? I’m your wife, what if I committed suicide because of some silly idea about infidelity or because my husband rarely is at home, when I get home?” The last sentences said pointedly at John, eyes small and staring.

But John’s mind had snapped shut at the word ‘suicide’. He leaned against the wall, pushed himself up and staggered to the nearest chair, where he slumped. Mary watched him, like a hawk watches the mouse before the kill.

“Mary, please don’t do this. You can’t... I’ve never, you know, I don’t...” John couldn’t find the words.

“Oh, do I then? Well, it would make perfect sense, wouldn’t it? Since you can’t have proper sex with me, you could always try and get it somewhere else!”

“Mary, please stop this. You know, you’re the only one, and if I just could figure out ... if you could tell me, what you need, what you want me to do...” John was desperate.

“You really want to know? Do you? Really?” Mary was shouting now. “Well,” she took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eyes, “I have to feel safe. I’ll have to restrain you, blindfold you. I can hardly breathe when you touch me, because I’m always reminded of...,” she broke of. The fury was leaving her voice and her posture was cracking.

John looked at her with wide eyes.

“You can’t restrain me,” he said in a small voice. “Mary, I... in Afghanistan, the Taliban. They restrained me and,” he swallowed.

This would be so much easier if he had this row with Sherlock, John thought. He would be able to deduce what had happened, John wouldn’t have to tell him about him being restrained, blindfolded and gagged, unable to help in any way, while his comrades where tortured right beside him. In the end he was allowed to patch them together roughly, so they would survive the next few days, making it possible for the Taliban to continue tormenting them. They were rescued within three days. John without a scratch on his body, while both his comrades were invalided for life.

Mary looked mockingly at John.

“Uh, they restrained you? Did they? And that is of course far worse than a woman being abused by her husband?”

John exerted himself one more time to calm Mary.

“This is not a contest on who had the worse experiences. But you must understand...”

“No! That’s precisely the point. I must not understand anything! You put your own needs first. Always! You don’t even try to understand, what would make me feel safe, feel loved!”

Mary was shouting, quivering with rage.

“I bet you also visited Baker Street today and had a nice little chat with Mrs Hudson,” Mary sneered. John looked surprised.

“How do you know...?”

“Oh, so I’m right? When were you planning on telling me?”

“But. Mary, listen. I was planning a dinner at Baker Street. Tomorrow. You, Mrs Hudson and me.”

“Dinner? Me, with... with that woman?” Mary couldn’t hide her contempt. “Who always goes on about her ‘boys’? And ‘back then’? Like in the ‘better days’? You want me to have dinner together with HER?”

John cleared his throat. It had seemed like a good idea that morning.

“Well, it will be a kind of farewell dinner,” he started.

“What?” Mary was confused.

“I have decided to give up the flat. Finally. Not right away. Mrs Hudson needs to find a new tenant,” John explained.

Mary huffed. John continued.

“I will tell her at the dinner. Hopefully not upsetting her too much.”

Another huff from Mary.

“Mary. Let me do this, please. I need some kind of closure on that part of my life.”

She looked at him. Calm, but cold, still angry.

“I think, you better sleep in your study to night,” she said, turned and went upstairs.

John was left alone in the living room.

That night his nightmares were back. Afghanistan, the capture by the 

Taliban, Sherlock’s fall, all of these were mingled into a story of terror, where the cries of his comrades turned into Sherlock’s, and the harsh laughter and cursing of the Taliban couldn’t be distinguished from Mary’s shouting and rage earlier that evening. In his dream John was fighting the restraints to no avail, getting more and more desperate while watching the torture of his comrade, who turned into Sherlock’s blood stained body, broken and twisted, laid out in front of him.

In the morning John felt as if he hadn’t slept the entire night. He went through his morning routine, hoping Mary had calmed down. When he entered the bedroom with the breakfast tray, she returned his greeting with a sleepy “Good morning, darling!” and John sighed in relief.

“Sorry about yesterday,” he said after putting the tray on her lap.

“Hmm,” Mary acknowledged and took a sip from her tea.

“Will you come to dinner at the flat?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Mary replied thoughtfully. “I’ll be there around six. I’ve got to work out some problems about the last experiment and I’ve no idea when James will be back again to help me with that one.”

“So you’re off to uni then?” John was disappointed. He had hoped they could have had a talk and work things out over breakfast so that the evening could stay focused on closing one of the most cherished parts of John’s life.

John took the breakfast tray and left Mary to her morning toilette. She came down half an hour later, gathered her things and let John kiss her good bye.

John stood alone in the kitchen, which looked classy with clean marble sideboards and a dining table in the middle. The table had a white bowl with fresh fruit in it. White, matching the colours of the tea towels. White cupboards, white mugs – John had kept his mugs at Baker Street, since they wouldn’t match the other things in the kitchen.

With a sigh he put the kettle on, made a fresh cup of tea and retreated to his study. He had a few hours before he was supposed to meet up at the surgery.

  


oOo

 

John arrived at Baker Street by five. The weather had decreased further, and if it wasn’t for the green on the trees, one would suppose that it was fall, not spring, soon to be summer.

Sarah had briefed him on Mrs Wesley, who had made it through the night, but wasn’t stable and could still go either way. Sarah had been put off by the husband, who was more disturbed by the fact that he couldn’t continue his experiments than by his wife fighting for her life.

Since the day had turned even colder than the day before, John started the fireplace, wanting the flat to be as nice and cosy as possible. Mary arrived on time and John greeted her with a hug and a kiss. They were both standing in front of the fireplace when John heard some shuffling up the stairs and the living room door opened.

  


XXX

 

This afternoon was definitely the right time and place. The men from the day before were gathering in the opposite building clearly visible through the open windows. The flat they used for the transaction had big windows and skylights, normally inhabited by an artist who at the time was abroad.

The evening before had been a disappointment since Moran hadn’t shown up. Sherlock had watched the flat watched, when several of the men began to discuss something, texting on their mobiles. He had managed to get close to some of the men leaving the building an hour later, muttering something about ‘doctor’s wife’ and ‘suicidal’, correctly deducing the doctor and hence Moran didn’t show because the doctor’s wife had attempted suicide.

Mycroft on the other hand had delivered the items, Sherlock had asked for.

He had been lying on the roof, feeling the cold creeping up in his body, as always recklessly forcing the sensations at bay, concentrating on the figures in the flat once more and the one spot on the roof he had singled out as the best point for a clean shot.

Moran came onto the roof two hours into Sherlock’s watch. He had a case with him and started to unpack its contents. Assembling the rifle, Moran time and again cast a glance at the other building, clearly waiting for a sign from some of the men.

Sherlock had moved closer. Inch by inch making sure not to make any kind of noise. The roof was flat and only a few ventilation shafts gave hiding possibilities. Moran was putting the last pieces onto the rifle, when he heard Sherlock approaching. He spun round and Sherlock stood in front of the rifle, holding John’s gun in his hand, pointing at Moran.

Both men shot at the same time. Sherlock went down hit in the left shoulder, not feeling any pain, just a hard slap against it. One thought in his mind: perfect! Moran jumped forward and had his hands around Sherlock’s throat before he was able to react. They were wrestling on the roof, but Moran’s training as a soldier and sniper, as well as having at least twenty pounds of muscle on Sherlock, made the outcome of this fight only too predictable.

Sherlock hadn’t anticipated the first shot, expecting Moran to be surprised and thus being able to get the upper hand. It was all too clear to Sherlock how close to failure he was. He had been in life threatening situations before. Several of them involving drug use, others experiments gone wrong, he had even been beaten up to a point, that could have been lethal, a few times before meeting John. Back then, Sherlock didn’t care, would have welcomed death, and was more often than not annoyed when he woke up in a hospital, with the worried eyes of Mycroft or later Lestrade on him.

John had not only shot people, who were threatening Sherlock, John had made sure Sherlock emerged from dangerous situations unharmed and ready to take on the next challenge. 

But this fight was his alone. Moran didn’t want to loose any time on the task he was on the rooftop for in the first place. Surprised or not, Sherlock had to die once and for all, and hopefully sooner than later, so Moran’s first victim wouldn’t escape his fate.

Sherlock could feel the hands closing his windpipe, shutting down his breathing, and he tried to find something, anything, he could use as a weapon. For the first time for as long as he could remember, Sherlock felt a desperate urge to stay alive.

His brain shut down, focussing on one single piece of information, pressing his body, fragile, undernourished, exhausted, into one last desperate attempt to free itself and kill the attacker. John was all, Sherlock could think of, all he needed to coil himself up, to press his body into one last assault, pushing Moran back with an unknown force, taking him and Sherlock by surprise. Sherlock reached for the gun and fired it, emptying it into Moran’s chest, taking revenge for the torment, pain, and hurt he had endured.

During the last two years, Sherlock had been raped and beaten. He had used his body shamelessly to attain information or to lull people into a false feeling of security before he went in for the kill. Sherlock could endure being used or using other people. But he had control, always some form of control. He could use his brainpower to turn the situation to his advantage.

On this rooftop, Sherlock had lost control, had his intellect stripped away and all that was left was his wish to come back to John.

The last bullet had left the barrel of the gun. Sherlock not noticing kept pulling the trigger. His mind turned back to the present, and he slowly sank to his knees, holding the gun in his right hand. He looked at the figure in front of him. Moran was dead, blood dripping down on the roof.

The adrenalin was keeping Sherlock from fainting, but he didn’t know how long it would last. Pain was blooming in his left arm. He got out the mobile, and texted Mycroft again.

‘Clean up the mess. SH’.  

He staggered up, swaying. The bag Mycroft had provided him with was near the staircase, and Sherlock walked unsteadily towards it. Gathering his coat, his beloved coat, from the bag, he put it on, hiding the blood, and then slowly walked down the staircase, John’s gun tucked away in his pocket.

On street level, Sherlock turned towards Baker Street, shortest route, pausing every five or so minutes, steadying himself. He was loosing blood fast and the adrenalin was fading. Every step brought him closer to his final goal. Narrowing his thoughts down to this one name “John”.

Standing at the front door of Baker Street 221B, Sherlock once more found some hidden strength, took the key from the chain around his neck and opened the door ever so softly. Closing his eyes, taking in the smell, the sounds, feeling the wallpaper, he balanced himself, using the railings and getting closer, slowly. Every step becoming more and more difficult, harder to breathe, to keep his eyes open.

He opened the door to the living room. John. Sherlock registered John’s whisper “Sherlock!”

He heard a woman almost crying. “Not again, John. I can’t take it anymore.”

Sherlock watched how she turned, fainting when seeing him, and slowly sinking to the floor without John trying to grab her. She must be John’s wife, according to the rings on his and her hand. Married for about six months.

This was wrong. John was not supposed to be married. He should be able to carry on without a wife, waiting for Sherlock. Shaken, not broken. Having dates, yes. Even being with the same woman for more than a few weeks, since Sherlock wasn’t around to meddle with everything. But married? That was egotistical, that’s what it was.

But something was off. John looked haggard, thin and haunted. Why would he do that? Sherlock’s mind was spinning. The strain he had put his body through in the last days and weeks started to take effect.

John. They locked eyes. Then John darted forward, grabbed him, and dragged him to the sofa before everything went blank.


	3. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back, but John is broken for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my very, very patient beta maggie_conagher (maggie_conagher.livejournal.com) - get well soon!

John looked at his hands and his shirt. They were covered in blood. Sherlock’s blood.

John’s hands started to tremble. He looked up at the figure on the sofa, lying still, almost lifeless.  John cringed at the sight, memories flooding his mind. Sherlock splayed out on the pavement in front of Bart’s in his coat, this very same coat, and blood everywhere.

John’s head was spinning. How could this be Sherlock, who had been dead for twenty-three months, one week and four days?

John’s whole body was shaking by now. Too many unanswered questions and so far unknown emotions were virtually hitting him like a physical blow.

Just when he thought he couldn’t keep it together any longer, John felt a well known calm descending upon him. His thoughts became focused on the challenge in front of him. Questions and answers had to wait for now. Explanations would be given in good time. At least that was what John hoped for.

The next moves were automatic. His hands checking pulse, temperature, breathing. Repeat with Mary, putting her in recovery position. Her eyes were fluttering under the closed lids, and he was sure, she would regain consciousness shortly. Getting his medical bag from the kitchen, he unexpectedly found everything he needed, since he hadn’t had time to put it back in order after Sarah had summoned him to the suicide attempt the evening before.

He started the IV dripping saline solution into Sherlock’s body to avoid the shock. The wound was on the top of Sherlock’s left shoulder. The cotton wool of the tee shirt had helped the blood to clot, keeping the blood loss down.

Mary moaned and turned on to her back. John went to her and helped her sit up with her back against his chest. She seemed a bit giddy for a few seconds. Then she let herself fall back into John’s embrace, before suddenly flinching away.

“Mary, please, it’s just me. Relax,” John said reassuringly.

“What happened?” she asked, then her eyes widened again, recognising the man on the sofa.

She pointed at him with a quivering finger, “Is that...?”

“Yes,” John said as composed as possible, “that is Sherlock Holmes. And I have no idea, what happened and how he got here.”

He helped Mary up and placed her in his armchair. He was stroking her hair to calm her, and for once she didn’t recoil. She appeared to be too fascinated by the ‘dead’ man being alive on the sofa to notice anything else in the room.

“I’ll have to finish with the wound, will you be okay?” he asked softly. Mary just nodded.

John went back to the sofa, cleaned the wound: rifle shot, far too close. No big blood vessels or bones were damaged.

“Lucky bastard,” John whispered, working on the stitches, making them as neat as possible, even though he was sure Sherlock would prefer a larger scar. He dressed the wound before rechecking the vitals.

Sherlock was breathing more evenly, apparently having avoided shock and John relaxed a bit.  Too little weight, John had thought when he dragged Sherlock onto the sofa. He let his finger glide caringly along the all to prominent cheekbones. Malnourished.

Sherlock stirred, then groaned as if in agony. John had only given him a mild painkiller, not wanting to interfere with any possible drugs Sherlock might have taken before his return to Baker Street.  He had noticed the small puncture wounds in Sherlock’s left arm, when he was putting on the IV. Some of these wounds were old, but John could clearly distinguish fresh marks in the arm. He would have to look after Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his eyes, unable to focus at first, then recognising who was perched on the coffee table besides the sofa.

“John,” he whispered, reaching out with his right arm. He stopped when he became aware of the IV, looking confused at John. John cleared his throat.

“Do you remember, what happened?” he asked hesitantly. ”How you got back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“I,” he was bewildered. His voice was hoarse. “I was on the roof. With Moran. A sniper. The last, John, he was the last one!”

Sherlock became agitated and John took his right hand, circling the palm with his thumb, comforting Sherlock and not even being aware of what he was doing. Sherlock continued.

“Moran was there to shoot someone. A doctor of biogenetics - something, an organisation,” Sherlock stopped, clearly disoriented, “ Swientech. They wanted him dead, because,” his voice faded and he blacked out again.

John checked him, before he turned to Mary.

“Cup of tea?” he asked and she acknowledged. Her eyes were glued to the figure on the sofa. He put the kettle on and went up to his room to get a new shirt. He took two mugs out and put teabags and milk in them, poured the boiling water on them, and was about to put sugar into the second cup before realising it was Mary’s, not Sherlock’s tea. He cast a guilty glance into the living room. Mary hadn’t moved.

He gave her the cup.

“I’ll have to check him for any other injuries,” he explained. Mary didn’t seem to pay attention to John. He repressed a sigh, turned and perched on the coffee table again.

He had cut the tee shirt open with a pair of scissors.  Sherlock’s skin was almost transparent. The pink colouring of his nipples emphasised the paleness of the rest of his body and John felt the cool, slightly damp skin with the tip of his fingers. He couldn’t help himself and let his fingers stroke featherlike down the side of Sherlock’s ribs, feeling the soft skin, stretched tight over bones, taking in every curve of his body, every hitch in Sherlock’s breath, while revelling in the sight and feeling.

In the back of his mind he was aware of Mary watching his every move. He pretended to both of them that it was just an examination.

Sherlock was meagre, almost gaunt. The ribs were standing out and bruises began to form. The marks of fingers and thumbs were clearly visible on his throat by now.  John shuddered, realising that the fight must have been a close call for Sherlock – and wondering how he had managed to free himself from that grip.

Gently, but with a firm hold John turned Sherlock unto his right side to examine his back. Apart from bruises, he obviously had received from whatever fight he had gotten himself into, nothing seemed amiss. John couldn’t resist trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s spine and up along his shoulder. Just to make sure, he told himself.

John lowered him carefully down on his back and his left hand ended up stroking Sherlock’s hair.  His fingers were cautiously fondling through the black curls on Sherlock’s head. Looking for possible head injuries, John assured himself. Allowing the strokes to be repeated several times, very slowly, tentatively. Just to make sure, John repeated in his mind.

Finally, John got up and went to Sherlock’s room, retrieving a clean shirt for him. He stroke Mary’s hair on his way, bending down to give her a kiss, but as usual she drew back. John felt guilty and worse, his anger was returning. It wasn’t his fault they were trapped in this situation. Mary had pushed for the marriage. John went along, compliant and happy with leaving the decision to someone else. He was not responsible for what happened to Mary prior to her knowing him. He was trying, but no matter how he turned and twisted, it never was enough.

But as always, anger meant memories from his childhood emerging. His father looming over his mother, his baby sister crying, and John feeling helpless. Once again John’s anger was washed away by the guilt, which was growing rapidly and draining him for whatever energy and resilience he might have had left.

John put the shirt on Sherlock, leaving his right arm free for the IV. John’s mind was reeling. The brief respite from dealing with the situation of Sherlock’s ‘non-death’ had reached its conclusion. The questions and emotions were back, feelings John wasn’t able to acknowledge in any way were breaking on top of him like waves.

Sherlock stirred again. He mumbled, and Mary leaned forward in the armchair while John took Sherlock’s hand once again, this time deliberately just holding it firm in his own hand.

“I tried to shoot Moran, but he got me first,” Sherlock murmured, “Then we fought. I thought,” Sherlock swallowed. John regarded the marks on Sherlock’s throat.

“I somehow managed to get away, shooting him. With _your_ gun!” The last sentence said with unhidden pride.

“And then I, how did I get here?”

Sherlock watched John’s face as if he would find an answer in it. Instead John’s eyes flicked away. John was not interested in giving Sherlock too many clues about his state of mind. However, he didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. It was a last, futile holding on to some kind of reality, while the rest of his world was spinning faster and faster, dragging him down into a dark pit.

“Don’t you want to introduce us, John?” Mary asked in a gentle, low voice.

John let go of Sherlock’s hand fast. Sherlock frowned. John turned around and saw his wife smiling innocently at both of them. Guilt flooding his mind again. The edges of the room were blurred and John felt surreal. Breathing too fast, he took a moment before starting the introductions.

“Mary, this is Sherlock, my best friend and flatmate,” realising the implication too late, attempting to cover it with, “and the only consulting detective in the world.” Knowing full well, Mary would remember the slip.

“Sherlock, this is Doctor Mary Morstan, my wife,” John finished.

John could see Sherlock scanning the room, taking in every little detail and every little piece of information. Data were emanating from John, his wife, their movements, motions, and speech. All stored for later retrieval and no doubt analysis and deductions. John was sure, he wouldn’t like most of Sherlock’s findings.

“We need to get you into bed. And I better find some meds to take care of the pain and possible infections. Have you,” John cleared his throat, “Have you been using something for the past weeks?”

Before Sherlock could answer John’s question, Mary interfered.

“I think, I better get home. I’m clearly not needed here.” Her voice was off.

Mary was angry. Of course she was, John thought, she had every right to be angry with him, but he couldn’t apologise, couldn’t find any words to explain any of this, not even to himself.

“I’ll be waiting up for you,” Mary said. It sounded like a threat.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” John replied, dreading the moment of his return.

Without another word, Mary left the flat and John was alone with Sherlock, intensely watching the outburst and now solely focusing on John. John hunched his shoulders. He turned back to Sherlock.

“What about the possible drug use?” John didn’t have any energy left for politeness.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “I haven’t used any the past weeks.”

John looked weary at him. ‘Weeks’, not ‘years’, he thought, sighing.

“Well, then, let’s try to move you,” John helped Sherlock up. Sherlock grunted because of the pain and the dizziness in his head. Leaning heavily on John’s shoulder, he made it into his bedroom. John had disconnected the IV from the empty solution bag before getting Sherlock up.

Sherlock slumped into the bed, his face twitching in pain.

“Just give me a minute,” John said and got his bag, searching through its contents. He took out several small bottles. After receiving the clear fluids through the IV, Sherlock visibly relaxed.

“We better get you out of your trousers and under the blankets.”

John kneeled and took off the worn shoes and socks. Except for the coat John had removed earlier, the clothes were dirty, old and torn in places. Sherlock must have stayed on the streets, John thought, yet, he had shaved this morning and clearly taken a bath, as if preparing for his homecoming.

No needle marks between the toes. John palmed Sherlock’s feet one at a time, doing his best to warm them, too tired to heed the emotions fighting inside of him. He removed Sherlock’s trousers and checked the lean legs for any further injuries.

Sherlock was drifting off into sleep, the pain in his body fading away. His breathing was slowing and his body tranquilised. John sat on the bed beside him, watching the peaceful face, his own mind in turmoil.

Once more he let his fingers feel the soft skin on Sherlock’s cheeks. Taking in the sight before him, John felt paralysed, unable to move away from Sherlock, unable to decide what to do next. His eyes fell to the bruising on Sherlock’s throat, his long neck. John had to touch it, feel the long curve of it, the light hair on the nape of it. He no longer pretended to be examining his friend, at the same time he didn’t have any idea, what he was doing or hoping to achieve.

John closed his eyes, taking Sherlock’s hand into his and started circling his thumb in the palm of Sherlock’s hand.

After a while John took a deep breath, got up, placed Sherlock’s hand under the cover. Checking him one more time, before returning to his armchair in the living room, turning it, so he could watch the open bedroom door. He had made another cup of tea, hoping it would help him resolve the situation in some way or other.

  


*

 

Mrs Hudson found John in his armchair some fifteen minutes later.

“Oh dear, Doctor Watson. What is wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Mrs Hudson sounded concerned and John jumped up, spilling his now cold tea on his shirt.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’m,” John stopped. He had forgotten Mrs Hudson and the planned dinner. How could he explain about Sherlock?

“Where is Mary?” Mrs Hudson asked, looking curiously around the living room, frowning at the blood stained tee shirt on the floor, shuffled together with the waste from John’s emergency stitching up of Sherlock, piled in an untidy heap.

“Doctor Watson!” Mrs Hudson’s voice became demanding, her arms crossed, and she did not look very pleased.

John closed his eyes. How on earth was he supposed to tell her what had happened?

“Mrs Hudson, I’m so sorry about the mess, but, but,” he just couldn’t. He looked at her with wide eyes, his arms hanging limp by his side.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes narrowed, and then she shook her head, smirking a bit.

“No, you haven’t finally killed her, have you?” she asked, not all joking. “So, who was here, needing an emergency stitching? And don’t you lie to me, young man.”

John couldn’t contain it, didn’t know how to reveal this carefully.

“Sherlock,” he just said.

Mrs Hudson stood dumbfounded for a few seconds. John prepared for yet another fainting. Slowly, Mrs Hudson uncrossed her arms, placing her hands at her hips.

“Well, isn’t this just typical? Creating a mess and then buzzing off again? Where is he gone to now, then?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

John opened his mouth, astonished, couldn’t find any words then pointed towards the bedroom. Mrs Hudson gave him a big smile, turned and went into the bedroom with firm steps. John followed slowly.

Sherlock hadn’t moved, getting the rest he probably had denied himself for far too long. Mrs Hudson’s smile grew even wider. She clasped her hands and brought them up to her face.

“Will you just look at him? Looking all innocent and peaceful,” she whispered.

She turned happily to John, who was lost in his examination of Sherlock’s face. So beautiful, he thought. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. What was happening to him?

Mrs Hudson eyed him attentively.

“Now, dear Doctor, you go and change your shirt and I’ll make us a proper cuppa,” she herded John in the direction of the stairs, while she walked back into the kitchen, putting water into the kettle.

A little while later, John came down, having put on a tee shirt and a jumper, feeling like himself again. He sat down at the kitchen table, where Mrs Hudson had prepared a few sandwiches from what she could find in the fridge.

“Dinner is off, I guess,” she put a steaming hot cup of tea in front of him. “You look like you could need some rest yourself, Doctor.”

John looked up at her. She had no idea, he thought then shrugged. She most likely had.

“You don’t seem,” John fumbled, “surprised?”

“Oh dear, but I am,” Mrs Hudson giggled. “But, well, you see, Sherlock always is unpredictable. And some surprises are just too good to get upset about, aren’t they?”

She sighed happily and took a sip of her tea.

“How bad is he?” she asked a little while later. They had eaten some of the sandwiches in an amiable blissful silence.

“He was lucky. He was close to being strangled and was shot in the left shoulder,” Mrs Hudson winked at him, when he mentioned the shoulder.

John cleared his throat, not finding it particularly ‘good’ that Mrs Hudson’s reaction in fact was comforting him.

“He lost some blood, is malnourished, and I’m worried about possible infections. But the wound was easy to clean, with a bit of luck, he will be up and running in a few days time,” John finished his account and drank the last of his tea.

While they were eating, he had checked on Sherlock every twenty minutes or so. He now went into the bedroom again, especially watching for any signs of pain or distress. Sherlock was breathing evenly and a little bit of colour had returned to his face. Talking with Mrs Hudson had calmed John considerably, even so he felt exhausted and incapable of deciding how to move on.

Mrs Hudson had joined him in the bedroom. When she placed her arm reassuringly on John’s shoulder, he had to hold himself back from turning and clinging on to her like a little child in need of consolation.

“Let’s clean up the kitchen, have another cup of tea, and make some plans for the next few days, shall we?” she asked kindly.

John nodded. He shuffled back into the kitchen, not able to hide the pain in his leg any longer.

“You just sit down, dear,” Mrs Hudson told him, put the kettle on, and a short time later the kitchen was spotless again, a hot cup of tea placed in front of John, while Mrs Hudson sat opposite him with her cup.

“Well, dear, it’s getting late and I guess, you better get home to Mary. Get some sleep and come back around lunch tomorrow. Can you leave some painkillers for him? I’ll make sure, he gets the right dose,” she chuckled, when John gave her a grave look.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure he won’t start with the drugs again, Doctor Watson. He may have used it while he was away, and who can blame him? Being all alone, probably fighting for his life, none of us knowing, he was still around. No, he won’t start on it again. Now he has too much to lose,” Mrs Hudson sent a knowing glance his way, which didn’t help John’s uneasiness.

“I’ll stay up here with Sherlock in case he should need anything or if he develops a fever. I’ll call you if anything changes,” she held John’s hand, while talking to him. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

Again, John just nodded. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock, to go ‘home’. Mrs Hudson was right, though, he had to get home to Mary. She must be anxious by now, and he had to find a way to make all of this mess up to her.

“Uhm,” he said, “I guess, you’re right. Call me, if anything changes. He hadn’t said much, but I’m sure he doesn’t want the police involved or get moved to a hospital.”  
“I know, I know. Now, you just get home and get a good night’s rest, Doctor Watson,” she was close to pushing him out of the flat, and he limped down the stairs, hoping to get a cab nearby.

 

*

 

Standing in the porch at the front door, John braced himself for what might be in store for him. He opened the door, clicking on the light, softly calling “Hello” into the flat. He expected an angry retort; instead he could hear sobbing from the living room.

John put his bag down, hung his coat in the closet and walked into the living room. Mary was sitting on the sofa, crying, tears rolling down her face.

“Mary, what...” John didn’t know how he could comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms, but her reactions for the past months had made it clear that he only would increase her distress.

“You don’t love me!” Mary said, followed by a loud sob and more tears. She had shot him a sharp glance with her clear grey blue eyes, before hiding her head in her hands again.

“Mary, please, you know, that’s not true, please, stop this,” John was at a loss.

“Tell me, what I can do to make all of this mess up to you,” he hoped for anything else but the answer Mary obviously would give.

“If you really, really love me, show me. Let me restrain you; have sex with you in a way that won’t intimidate me. In a way, where _I_ can be satisfied for once!” She didn’t shout, but her voice was firm. More tears were trailing down her face.

John was terrified.

“Mary,” his voice petered out. Fatigue, coupled with feeling inadequate, and a bottomless source of guilt, dragging him down, he finally gave up.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked in a flat voice, no fight left.

Mary looked up, her eyes clear.

“Do you really mean it?” She sounded a bit surprised, but mostly wary.

John nodded. He hadn’t any strength left for an argument, an explanation.

Mary cleared her throat.

“Take a shower, lie down on your back in our bed. Just keep on your boxers. And,” Mary sounded business like, a little breathless, “please don’t talk. Just let me,” she paused. “Let me do, what I need to do.”

John limped up to the bathroom. His body was acting up; his head was empty, a loud roaring sound in his ears. He got ready as requested, pushing his thoughts of Afghanistan away. The effort was too great for his tumbling mind. Waiting for Mary disquieted him further. He was close to a panic when she turned up.

“I’ll blindfold you and tie your hands and feet. Then I want you to get ready for me,” her voice was all business again.

“How?” John wanted to ask, but she hushed him, looking angry.

“Don’t say anything,” she said, then added more softly, “please.”

The roaring sound in John’s ears came back when Mary had put the blindfold on him. He felt utterly helpless, unable to suppress his memories from the war, the capture. His body started to tremble.

He couldn’t see Mary, and she tried to avoid any unnecessary contact with him while tying his hands and feet. When she finished, she took John’s hands.

“You have to get ready now, for me,” she said, pulled his boxers down, just far enough to expose his cock, then placed his hands on his limb member. John wasn’t sure what Mary wanted from him.

“John,” she didn’t sound pleased, “you have to be,” she paused, sounded a bit embarrassed, ”you have to be hard, I want to have you inside me when I come.”

She wanted him to masturbate blindfolded and tied up? John felt the panic rising in him.

“Please, Mary, let me see you, touch you, I’ll be –“ he pleaded.

She cut him off.

“John!” He could hear anger and distress in her voice. Then sobbing, “please John, I can’t... I cannot. You have to do this. It’s the only way.”

She sounded heartbroken. He couldn’t see her. She wouldn’t let him touch her. But if he let her do this, if he was compliant this one time, then maybe, maybe she would start to trust him? Let him touch her, kiss her?

John put his fingers around his cock – and was back in the shower, how many days ago? Just two. Two days, which seemed like a lifetime to John. The roaring in his ears ceased. His fingers worked slowly, as if feeling the soft skin for the first time. John caught a breath. The image of Sherlock’s fingers on his cock, his long slender fingers playing with his balls, teasing him, arousing him – his body responded forcefully, sending waves of tingling feelings up his spine, goose bumps up along his arms. John bit his lower lip to stifle a moan.

His cock was hard and leaking with precome. John was confused, the hard flesh in his hand sent waves of desire through his body and mind. Images of Sherlock, his body, his voice – oh, this voice, John could feel the heat building in his groin.

“That will suffice,” Mary’s voice brought John back to the present situation.

His body was tense and the anxiety was back. Mary took his hands and tied them to the headboard of the bed. She secured the knots tightly around both hands and feet, restricting John’s circulation.

Then she got ready herself. John could hear how she touched herself, moaning, sighing. Then she straddled him, lowering her body over his erect cock, taking it in one stride. Her hands did not touch him. John wanted to respond to her, feel her on his body. But she was not allowing him to.

Her movements became faster, more erratic and finally she came, panting, shouting, not holding anything back, and letting the orgasm shatter through her body. John’s body responded involuntarily, bucking up, seeking friction, any kind of contact.  Mary hissed at him, panting hard, and pulled off him. Standing beside the bed, she waited for her breathing to become even.

She bent down towards John, still not touching him.

“I want you to masturbate while I am watching. I will untie your arms, but not your hands. You will not try to take any of the restraints off you. Please John, can you do this for me?” She sounded almost shy.

He nodded, trembling. She untied his arms. Guided them down to his erection and watched. She had told him to lie still, except for the stroking, and not to make any noises. He was trying to comply. When he finally came, his come splashing over his hands and belly, she placed a towel over it and said: “Clean up. I’ll be in the shower. When I am back, you can take a shower.” She sounded almost happy and satisfied. “And put on a clean sheet.”

John got rid of the blindfold easily enough, but had trouble with the knots in the shawls, tying his hands. Eventually he got them opened, using his teeth. The material had cut deep bruises in his wrists and ankles. He rubbed both hands against each other to get the circulation back. His feet were next. The stinging sensation of the restrained flow of blood gave John a much-needed centre of perception, drowning other emotions and thoughts in a welcomed fuzziness for a few minutes.

John felt dirty, even guiltier than before. When he had come, he had a vivid picture of Sherlock’s lips around his cock in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t replace this with one of his few memories of sex with Mary.

He cleaned himself, changed the sheet, made sure the used one was buried deep under the other laundry together with the towel, and went wordlessly into the bathroom when Mary had finished.

Taking a hot shower for the second time that night, John was hardly able to stand upright. He crouched at the sink, brushing his teeth, then staggered into the bedroom and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. On the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back, and it looks like business as usual. Or does it?

“John!”

Sherlock almost jumped out of the bed, then groaned because of the pain in his shoulder and the hurting in the rest of his body. Confused, he looked around the room. Room? His room. Not a homeless shelter, an abandoned building, or some makeshift cover in a park. His bed. Clean sheets. Oh, the smell of clean sheets.

His head felt fuzzy, as if... no, the last time he had used _that_ was at least a month ago. Must be some of the medicine John had administered last night. John. John was safe. He was safe, back at Baker Street. But something was wrong.

Sherlock tried to get his mind working, when he heard some well known and – yes, he admitted shamelessly – longed for tutting noises. Mrs Hudson came in through the open bedroom door.

“Well, seemed like a bad dream with all the thrashing going on,” she smiled and put down a cup of tea on the bedside table, sat down with a cup of her own and just looked at Sherlock.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, the throat still sore from the assault.

“Here, take your tea. And this should help as well,” Mrs Hudson offered the cup and some pills. Sherlock took the pills and a sip of the hot drink. “Doctor Watson will return later today. It seems as if he will be able to stay a few days,” she paused. “His wife is on her way to a conference – all of a sudden.”

Sherlock watched her closely. She didn’t like John’s wife. He smirked, that made two of them. They sat for a while, drinking the tea and just letting the situation settle in. Sherlock tried to make sense of the information he had gathered so far.

John didn’t seemed content and certainly had lost a lot of weight since he last saw him. Sherlock winced at the memory. Mrs Hudson watched Sherlock closely.

“You’re thinking of John and what had happened to him, since you -” she paused and looked down, took a deep breath. She didn’t wait for an answer, just continued answering an unasked question.

“Yes. So, Doctor Watson wasn’t well at all,” she paused, then added as if talking to herself, “He still isn’t.”

She cleared her throat and looked at Sherlock. The smile had vanished from her face. The expression became serious before she continued.

“He didn’t leave the flat, even when your nice police officer, you know, Detective Inspector Lestrade, came around. Sarah, his former lady friend, who has the surgery, she got him out in the end,” Mrs Hudson continued after a little while. Sherlock looked puzzled. “No, no, not like that. He works full time at her surgery and I guess, that’s what saved him after those first months.”

“Saved?” Sherlock frowned.

“He never went through with it, obviously, but I know he had his gun out of the drawer more than once. He never knew, I guess, but when I cleaned up his room – I did that for the first months after, you know, to,” she paused and looked a little guilty at Sherlock, who had turned pale and put down his cup, trying to hide the trembling of his hand, “to be able to watch him. I checked the gun several times; always making sure it wasn’t loaded. To give him the extra time, if he -” her voice trailed off.

Sherlock looked at her. Of all the things, he had imagined, John killing himself hadn’t even entered his mind. Mrs Hudson looked curiously at him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed.

Every other scenario but this, John married, clearly unhappy, and as far as Sherlock could infer almost on the verge of a breakdown. He shook his head. Mrs Hudson watched him closely.

“Oh dear, you don’t understand, do you?” she said with a bit of pity.

“Guilt?”

But he didn’t understand. Why would John feel guilty?

“You jumped in front of him, Sherlock. Or at least it looked like that. He couldn’t save you. Try to imagine what you would feel like, if he had pulled the trigger?”

Sherlock’s mind went blank. He could feel his stomach turn and looked terrified at Mrs Hudson.

“He’s still alive, Sherlock. He didn’t go through with it.”

Mrs Hudson had taken his hand. He couldn’t hide the trembling any longer. She stroked his palm reassuringly, looking into his eyes with a small smile on her face. It took a few minutes before Sherlock calmed down.

“I had to,” Sherlock wanted to explain, but his voice petered out.

“I know. We figured it out, Doctor Watson and I, once we got some more information on everything from the Detective Inspector. And Mycroft. Well, Doctor Watson doesn’t talk to him, but he told me a few things, comes for a visit every now and then.” She looked at Sherlock, “But Doctor Watson still felt guilty, and once he had cleared your name... You know, they documented every single one of your cases. I guess, all the ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ events helped as well,” she giggled. “The press turned round within a few days, demanding a thorough investigation.”

The smile was back and she stood up, giving Sherlock some peace to digest the news.

“I’ll better make some breakfast. Doctor Watson will be furious if I don’t get you to eat properly. We can’t have you looking like a ghost, now that you’re back, can we?” she winked at him and went back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was alone for a little while, listening to the familiar noises from the kitchen, imagining John making toast, new cups of tea. Pushing the thought of John and his gun down, he forced his mind back to contemplating the facts. Something wasn’t adding up. Why would Mary suddenly leave for a conference? Those things are normally planned weeks, months in advance. And why would she leave now? It was quite clear that she didn’t approve of John’s – connection with him. From what Mrs Hudson told him, Sherlock was sure Mary had tried to isolate John from his friends.

But why would she do that? And Doctor Wesley? He knew that name.

Sherlock sighed, feeling the pain leave his shoulder. He needed more data. Mrs Hudson returned with breakfast and a stern look on her face. He started on the toast right away, not daring to do otherwise.

Mrs Hudson sat silent for a while, making sure Sherlock was in fact eating.

“You have to help him,” she said silently, looking at the cup in her hands. Sherlock didn’t reply, waited for her to continue.

“He has to get away from her. And you know Doctor Watson,” she had lifted her head. “He is loyal, no matter what. But she is no good for him. And he can’t do this on his own.”

She wasn’t pleading. It was a matter of fact. Still Sherlock was surprised. Mrs Hudson didn’t meddle with other people’s business. This must be far worse than he had been able to infer so far.  


“I can’t,” Sherlock didn’t know how to phrase the rest of the sentence.

Mrs Hudson quirked a brow and finished the sentence for him, “break up a marriage? Oh Sherlock, sure you can. But no,” she shook her head, almost giggling again. “That was not my point. You have to help him once he realises what she is doing to him. You have to be there for him.”

“But you can’t be serious,” Sherlock spluttered.

Mrs Hudson almost laughed at his expression.

“You’ll know what to do. Just be there, trust me,” she patted his arm then got up again. “And now, young man, I think a bath and some clean clothes would be in place before your doctor arrives.”

With that she left the room. Sherlock concentrated on the task at hand: getting out of bed, finding clean clothes in the wardrobe, and walking a little stiffly to the bathroom.

“I’ll change your dressing, when you’re done,” Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen.

And Sherlock let himself be engulfed by the warm water, soap, and shampoo. Taking his time and clearing his mind for a few minutes, before he started to work on the problem with Doctor Wesley and Doctor Mary Morstan again.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, hair still wet and unruly. Mrs Hudson was ready for him in the kitchen. He hadn’t put on a shirt and was sitting in a kitchen chair, Mrs Hudson working on the dressing, when he heard John’s footsteps on the stair limping again, but trying to hide it.

When John entered the kitchen, Sherlock had to catch a breath. In broad daylight John looked even thinner and more worn than the night before. The bags under his eyes were dark, the eyes sad, hardly any spark of life left in them. Sherlock observed that John tried to straighten up under his scrutiny.

“So, how is our patient today, Mrs Hudson?” John tried to make it sound lightly, but his voice was betraying him.

His whole body displayed his uneasiness with the situation. Sherlock could feel Mrs Hudson tense up, giving him a little squeeze on his good shoulder, before returning John’s greeting. John was wearing a jumper, which was baggy and had sleeves that were just a bit too long for his arms, covering parts of his hand.

“Oh, Doctor Watson. As you can see, he’s up, had his breakfast – all of it! And I’m just finishing with the dressing. The wound looked very nice. No infection.”

John had both his medical bag and his duffle with him. Sherlock had watched every little motion since he came into view. Mrs Hudson had finished and gave John a short account of the uneventful night, then left both of them alone, having cast Sherlock one final pointed glance, which he acknowledged with a short nod.

John had been fidgeting with his mobile, with a worried expression on his face.

“You’re staying for the next few days?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Well, it looks that way, if it’s okay with you,” John replied without taking his eyes off the display.

“It’s okay with me,” Sherlock said. “You don’t seem to like the idea though,” he remarked coolly.

“What?” John looked up. “No, sorry. It’s just – I’ve got this text from Sarah.”

John went over and put water in the kettle, turning it on. Then he sat down, again looking through his text messages. Sherlock’s patience was wearing out. He cleared his throat. John seemed to realise that he was waiting for an explanation. 

“Sorry. Well, Thursday evening Doctor Wesley’s wife tried to commit suicide. And Doctor Wesley, James, he is a colleague of Mary’s,” Sherlock nodded, “he didn’t seem, well, concerned for his wife at all. Came to the hospital the same evening, but just for a very brief visit. Sarah was quite upset, because she was critical, still is. It’s touch and go – and even if she should pull through, she might end up with severe brain damage.”

John stopped, puzzled. The water had finished boiling and John got up to prepare two mugs of tea placed one in front of Sherlock, the other he held in both his hands. Sherlock had to hold himself in check for not starting to tap his fingers on the table.

Finally John continued.

“Then Friday night, in fact, it must have been around midnight or so, Doctor Wesley came to the hospital, demanding to be allowed to stay with his wife. That wasn’t a problem, of course. But he didn’t leave her at all except for the trip to the loo.” John paused and sipped on his tea. Sherlock was getting impatient.

“And then, this morning, Mary told me, that Doctor Wesley and she were going to this conference at Paris. Something about one of the other participants couldn’t come and Mary’s research being on the verge of a breakthrough right now, which would make it interesting,” John stopped again.

Sherlock leaned back, thinking.

“Where’s your laptop? And I need your phone,” he said, holding out his hand. John didn’t even hesitate, giving Sherlock his phone, then walking to his bag to get his laptop.

Sherlock sent two texts and put the phone into his pocket. John’s laptop was starting up. Sherlock got up. His body was still aching, so he walked slowly into the living room, taking the tea with him. Dismissing the sofa, since his shoulder was acting up right now, he sat down in his armchair, placing the mug beside him. He clasped his hands in the familiar praying position and was lost in thought.

A few minutes later, he jumped back to the present when John gave a startled cry.

“What?” Sherlock asked. His eyes were fixed on John.

“It’s just, sorry,” John looked flustered. “Just you sitting in that chair. It’s... I’m... I haven’t...”

Sherlock shrugged, twitching because the movement caused a new wave of pain through his left shoulder. John went to his medical bag and got Sherlock two pills and a glass of water.

“Take these,” he offered. Sherlock took both pills and swallowed the water.

“Did he bring a suitcase?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry?” John was puzzled.

“Doctor Wesley.” Sherlock had closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, clearly trying to avoid putting pressure on his left shoulder.

“I, well, I don’t know. I can phone the hospital, if it’s important – or send a text to Sarah,” John was unsure.

“No,” Sherlock dismissed John. “The laptop?”

John handed it to him, returned to his own armchair after having found the newspaper.

Sherlock checked different websites, at the same time revelling in John’s presence. This was how it was supposed to be. Except for John’s obvious distress. He was trying to hide something underneath that jumper. Sherlock hoped he could get a glimpse of whatever it was later that day, when John’s guard was down. Right now, just sitting in the same room with John was rather satisfying.

Sherlock checked one last site and regretted it right away. He had kept away from John’s blog since his disappearance, mainly to avoid any kind of possible trailing, but also because he had to admit he was afraid of whatever he might have found in the entries. 

‘ _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._ ’ After that – nothing. John had stopped updating, not one word about Mary or the wedding. Sherlock examined John while he was reading the paper. John hadn’t even asked him what had happened, how he had done ‘it’. What he had been up to all this time. Sherlock was disturbed by this lack of interest and energy. Where was the shouting, the anger? John was just compliant, waiting for the next move from Sherlock.

John shifted a bit in his seat, turned to the next page of the paper. Sherlock saw the marks on his wrists. Fresh marks. So he had been tied up last night. Sherlock frowned. John had never given any indication that he was into that kind of sexual play. Sherlock shifted through all the details he had about John and his interactions with the various girlfriends Sherlock had seen him with. Nothing gave any evidence of some kind of D/s relation or a preference for bondage. Yes, Sherlock could boss him around, but John didn’t just give in – and certainly could stand his ground. At least he could two years back. Neither John nor his girlfriends had any marks on them.

Sherlock could always tell when John had had sex. The way he acted afterwards, his smell, his moves. There wasn’t even the slightest suggestion of any of these clues on John right now. Quite contrary, Sherlock had thought that John’s subdued mood was caused by the actual lack of sex. Sherlock was annoyed but before he could enquire further into the matter, he heard the front door open and close.

“Well, well, I guess, we have a visitor,” Sherlock said, putting away the laptop.

John looked up from the papers, obviously not having paid attention to whatever was happening around him.

“Hmm?”

“My guess, it’s Lestrade – almost flying up the stairs,” Sherlock settled back in the armchair with a smug smile on his face.

“Lestrade? But how –“ John asked.

“I texted him,” Sherlock explained.

“It’s for real then. You’re back!” Lestrade exclaimed when he entered the living room. Wrong tie, wrong aftershave, Sherlock observed. No, he thought, oh, Mycroft, you didn’t.

“And hello to you as well, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said. “Did you bring the file?”

“Just like that?” Lestrade tried to grasp the situation. “Back from the death and business as usual?”

“Oh come on now, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, looking from Lestrade to John and back again. John hadn’t said a word and was clearly trying to figure out what was going on.

“Mycroft must have told you.”

“Mycroft?” Suddenly John seemed to wake up. “Why Mycroft?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade sounded exasperated, “How the hell do you know about that? It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Then I should advise you not to use his ties or his aftershave when called out on a Sunday,” Sherlock quirked a brow and John just gaped.

“You’re not – seriously? Mycroft?!” John was fighting the urge to laugh hysterically, at the same time trying to keep his anger for Mycroft hidden.

Sherlock was quite intrigued. John was still easy to read and he definitely didn’t like Mycroft at all, while he considered Lestrade a very good friend. Interesting dilemma, but not the problem he was working on at this time.

“The file?” he asked again.

Lestrade was still put out by Sherlock’s revelation and John’s ambiguous reaction, and just handed the file to Sherlock. John got up from his chair and went into the kitchen.

“Want a cuppa?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” Lestrade answered shakily.

Sherlock was looking through the papers and just grunted a reply. John returned after a short while with the cups, and sat down in his chair. Lestrade had slumped in the sofa.

“So you’ve moved in with Mycroft then?” John asked with disbelieve in his voice.

“Yeah,” Lestrade still sounded quite shaken.

“Congratulations,” John grinned.

“Thanks.” Lestrade thought a while then continued, “Can we keep this between us for now? I’m, well, the divorce just went through and it’s all quite new and... ”

“No problem,” John replied, “I’ll see what I can do about him.”

John pointed to Sherlock, who was going through the file, checking photographs, and the medical notes.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked curiously. John shrugged.

“He turned up yesterday with –“ John started but was interrupted by Sherlock.

“When did Sarah call you about the suicide?”

John looked for his phone, sighed.

“Sherlock, you’ve got the phone. Look it up!”

Sherlock took out the phone and flipped through the lists. He frowned when he found the entry.

“Do you have any files on Doctor Wesley himself?” Sherlock asked without even looking up from the phone.

Lestrade frowned.

“Why?”

“I need more information. Something is missing in here,” Sherlock was annoyed. All this pieces and bits of information and he couldn’t get the bigger picture yet.

“But it’s a suicide attempt,” Lestrade asked uneasy, “or is it?”

“Yes, yes, it is. At least,” Sherlock stopped again, thinking, “at least that’s what it looks like right now. But there is something else, this is part of something bigger.” He practically growled the last part of the sentence.

“You better be going and find some information on Doctor Wesley,” Sherlock ushered him up and out of the room, “and tell Mycroft, I need all of this tomorrow morning!”

He turned and his face distorted in pain.

“This shoulder is –“ He went to the window and watched Lestrade drive away.

“I’ll make some sandwiches. You need to get something to eat – and don’t start on the ‘I’m on a case’ stuff!” John went into the kitchen.

Sherlock turned around. This was not yet a case, but the pieces started to come together. If only he could get some more information on the research.

“John?” he called out.

“Yes?”

“Do you have access to Mary’s laboratory?”

“Sorry?” John came back from the kitchen with two plates of sandwiches. Sherlock sat down with one of them and started to eat.

“You want to break into her laboratory?” John asked hesitantly. “What is this all about?”

“I don’t know yet. I need more information, more data. Why did they leave for this conference?” Sherlock was talking to himself, so John didn’t try to answer, just nodded. So Sherlock went on.

“What time do they arrive at Paris?”

“They should be there later this evening. I’d promised I’ll call, because this all came so sudden,” John answered.

“I need to see the research,” Sherlock had eaten his sandwiches and looked expectantly at John.

He sat back and thought for a while. “Well, Mary has a computer at home, but it’s password prote-,” John stopped before finishing the sentence. Sherlock snorted. “But, Sherlock, you can’t just break into her research. This is – I mean, she doesn’t even tell me anything about it.”

Sherlock just looked at him. Then he got up, took his coat and waited for John to catch up.

“Damn!”

They didn’t talk on their way to the flat. John looked out of the cab window, while Sherlock was sending texts on the phone. Every now and again Sherlock cast a worried glance at John.

It took Sherlock less than five minutes to get Mary’s password right. Looking through various notes and lab reports, Sherlock became more and more absorbed in the material in front of him.

“Let’s copy this and get back home,” Sherlock said finally and John cleared his throat.

“This is home. To me. You know,” he said firmly, clenching his fist. Sherlock watched him with interest wondering if his John Watson was beginning to show.

He copied the files and closed everything down. On their way back to Baker Street they got some take away. The meal was conducted in silence. Sherlock was aware of John’s compliance. There didn’t seem to be any fight left in him and Sherlock was disquieted by it.

While Sherlock started to put notes on the mirror in the living room, John cleaned up the kitchen and made two cups of tea. He watched Sherlock for a while.

“I better call Mary to see if she’d had a nice trip.” John looked at Sherlock.

He just gave a short nod, but no indication to give John his phone back. John sighed and took his mobile out of Sherlock’s pocket, went to his chair, sat down and called Mary.

“Hello darling, it’s John. How are...” John looked surprised. Sherlock watched, registering every single detail. Something was happening.

“Mary? Mary!” John looked at the phone. Speed dial. Now John was oblivious to Sherlock watching him ever so intensely.

“Mary?” John started again. “What is...” Again he looked down at his phone. Speed dial.

“Stop doing this! I want to talk to you. NOW!” John jumped up from his chair. Sherlock was surprised about the anger in John’s voice. As was Mary, since she obviously didn’t disconnect right away this time. “Okay then. You’ll call me back in half an hour.” John’s tone was commanding now. He hung up.

Looked around. Confused, Sherlock registered. And angry. Very angry, without knowing why. Interesting, Sherlock thought. John’s body was shaking; slowly, he put the mobile down on the coffee table.

Sherlock was fascinated. Clearly John’s body was responding to something, John’s mind hadn’t had time to recognise yet. Even now, Sherlock was certain that John wasn’t aware of his wife’s affair with Doctor Wesley.

John was motionless for a few moments, then his body tensed up. The shaking had disappeared, and the pupils in his eyes had contracted, enhancing their blueness. His jaw was clenched, his hands turned into fists. Slowly he turned and with a quick move of his arm he cleared the coffee table. He took a few deep breaths, grabbed the table, hauled it up into the air and smashed it down to the floor.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he growled under his breath.

Cautiously Sherlock removed his notes from the mantle and retreated behind the desk, making sure his notes and the laptop were secured from John’s attack.

“Bloody,” John’s voice was louder, turning his rage towards one of the floor lamps, which hit the ground with another satisfying crash. Intrigued, Sherlock tried to deduct which part of the furniture would be next in line. Television.

“Fucking...” John was shouting. The television went to the ground. Books next, Sherlock thought, frowning a bit.

“Hell!” A cry and one of the shelves was cleared, the books fluttering to the ground. John turned and went to the middle of the room. It appeared as if he suddenly remembered where he was. With wide confused eyes he looked at Sherlock:

“What happened just now?” he asked.

Sherlock replied gently: “Your body just informed you that your wife is having an affair with Doctor Wesley and I assume that it had been going on for one month and two – no, three weeks now.”

John looked at Sherlock, who watched him like an interesting specimen.

“Sherlock. What did I just do?” he asked.

“Having a fit, I guess would be the right expression,” Sherlock said. He tried to keep his voice calm, but inside his body something snapped. John was still panting. His anger wasn’t over yet and Sherlock could see another tension building inside John's body.

“You knew?” John asked. Sherlock just nodded, watching every little twitch in John’s face and body.

John closed his eyes, took his hands up to his face, and started to turn, when Sherlock whispered, “Please, John, don’t. I need to read you, please.”

John turned back, his eyes wide in utter disbelief.

“You WHAT?” he said hoarsely. “You ‘need’ to read me?” He dragged out the word ‘need’. “What kind of fucking freak are you?”

John’s body cringed; every single muscle appeared to tighten. Sherlock was furious.

“Freak?” he said with a low deep voice. “How dare you!” John didn’t even flinch.

“How dare – You... you just...” John was trying to compose himself. “I wasn’t the one who jumped and left, going off on a happy case run!” John looked accusingly at Sherlock, who approached him slowly.

“I had to do that. You know that already. Mrs Hudson told me -“, Sherlock felt the tension building inside of him.

“Oh, she did, did she? And that makes it all right!”

“You think this was just for the fun of it? You have no fucking idea, what it was like out there,” Sherlock was clearly close to losing it, and John eased a bit, surprised by the swearing, Sherlock noted.

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me, posh boy,” John was getting furious. Every single fibre in his body was ready to punch the man in front of him, and Sherlock was aware of that, but couldn’t stop himself.

“Uh, so that’s it, ‘posh boy’?” Sherlock said mockingly. “Got called that a lot – especially the first months, while still looking the part. Believe me, it wasn’t for the better. Oh no, ‘posh boy’ soon learned to get rid of his manners, I can tell you that.”

Sherlock wasn’t backing down, but his body reacted to the closeness of the other. He could feel John’s presence, smell him, and see the small tremble in his body. His anger kept the tension in his body, but John’s closeness changed everything else. His longing and need from the last year washed over him and he couldn’t, didn’t want to stop here. One more step, leaning in over John. Bewildered he stopped. John’s face didn’t express anger any longer. And while Sherlock had stopped his advance, John didn’t. His hands reached up and pulled Sherlock’s head down, crushing his lips hard on his.

Sherlock looked with wide eyes into the open black eyes of John, pulling slightly off after the first touch. Pupils expanded, lips parted, breath shallow, Sherlock imagined himself looking exactly the same – and lounged forward, taking the next kiss, forcefully opening his mouth, shoving his tongue into John’s mouth, opening without hesitation. Both bodies drawn towards each other, just closing the gap, needy gasps, moans emphasising the urge to touch, to feel each others heat.

John tore Sherlock’s shirt off him, Sherlock trying to pull the jumper off John without losing contact. Not possible, but he nearly got a mouthful of wool in his mouth in his frantic attempt to close in on John again. Tee shirt? He also wore a – Sherlock ripped it off him. Their bodies were together again, their hips grinding at a desperate pace. Sherlock winced when John grabbed his left shoulder, pulling him closer, back towards the sofa. John fell backwards, dragging Sherlock along down onto him, turning Sherlock onto his right side, locking him against the back of the sofa.

Their mouths open, as if trying to swallow the other. Tongues, teeth, sucking, biting – Sherlock pushed his head back, laying his throat bare and John trailed kisses from his ear down along his tendons to his collarbone and sucked hard, using his teeth in the end, leaving a visible mark. Sherlock’s hip bucked involuntary against John’s, grinding and feeling the hard cocks through the tough fabric of their trousers.

Both panting, hands clasping on to the other body, searching, feeling, registering the moans, the shiver, the muscle spasms. Sherlock bent down and found John’s right nipple with his lips. He sucked hard and could feel John responding. Trousers, pants, had to go. Now. They tore off the other’s clothes, not regarding any obstacles, only the need for closeness, for the touch of skin on skin, being prominent in their minds and bodies. And finally, finally, no layers between them, just mouth on mouth, chest on chest, hip on hip, cock grinding on cock. They were slick with precome, when Sherlock took them both in his slender hand.

“Yes, fuck, Sherlock, yes,” John moaned, moving into Sherlock’s fist, faster and faster, Sherlock following his lead, picking up speed with his hand. They both came, shouting the other’s name, bucking a few times more, before simply slumping into the arms of each other.

John felt boneless against Sherlock, whose mind for a few delicious moments went totally blank before starting to collect data again. John lying beside him, breathing slowing, his head tucked in Sherlock’s shoulder. John’s hair, its smell, the smell of sex, of John after sex. Sherlock frolicked in this stream of new information, holding John tight in his arms. And John relaxed. Sherlock could feel it, see his shoulders fall slightly. John was falling asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock calmed, got the blanket on one end of the sofa over the two of them, using his toes to grab it, and his last thoughts, before drifting to sleep were concerned with the mess they had made and how sticky that would be in the morning.

“Got you,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair and closed his eyes.


End file.
